Paralucidity

By Stephen H. Provost

Somebody wanted Minerva Rus dead. They succeeded. But Minerva isn’t letting a little thing like death stop her. After the dangerous adventure that killed her in Memortality, Minerva Rus has reconciled herself to being dead. She and her also-dead boyfriend Raven share an amazing gift that allows them to bring the dead back to life―including each other. Now that Jules, their most dangerous enemy, has been banished from reality and trapped inside her own mind, Minerva and Raven plan on enjoying the eternity of their unnatural lives. But immortality isn’t safe. Minerva and Raven’s life-giving powers mysteriously fade, forcing them to take refuge in The Between, a shadowy realm of memories that lies between life and death. What's more, their old adversary Jules is on the loose, partnered with a resurrected Nazi scientist planning a monstrous experiment that will change the destiny of the human race. And now it's up to a 21-year-old dead girl to save the world―again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pace Press
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781610353335

Stephen H. Provost

Stephen H. Provost is an author and journalist who has worked as an editor, columnist, and reporter at multiple newspapers. His previous books include Fresno Growing Up: A City Comes of Age 1945–1985; Highway 99: The History of California's Main Street; Highway 101: The History of El Camino Real; and the fantasy novels Memortality and Paralucidity. He resides in Martinsville, VA.

Book preview

Training

How do you like being dead?

Minerva scowled and exhaled hard as she rose from the floor. She extended a hand for help, but Amber shook her head. You’re a big girl. Do it yourself.

Minerva’s scowl deepened as she got up quickly the way she’d been practicing, using only her feet. Look, Ma, no hands, she quipped as she jumped up, making it look far easier than it was. And being dead has its advantages. Like why do I have to learn all this self-defense stuff? My wounds just heal up anyway. The real danger’s all up here. She tapped her temple with an index finger.

That’s the point, to make you mentally tough, Carson interjected, standing off to the side, near the bleachers. The more challenges you face, the more prepared you’ll be for the next one.

Yes, Sensei, she said, putting her hands together and bowing slightly toward the government agent. Dressed in a Men in Black-style outfit, he looked like a younger, slightly less rugged Tommy Lee Jones. Or should I call you Yoda?

The farce is strong with this one, Amber laughed. Quit stalling. I’ve already killed you eleven times. And you didn’t answer my question: How do you like being dead?

I was dead before you killed me, remember? That’s what makes this whole thing a little pointless … ugh!

She absorbed a sidekick to her midsection that sent her back to the ground.

Twelve, Amber said. Minerva hopped to her feet more quickly this time.

No fair. I wasn’t ready, she shouted, genuinely angry as she whirled to face Amber.

Will you be ready when one of Jules’ goons jumps you? Carson asked calmly. She may be out of commission, but who’s to say there aren’t others out there? Not to mention your garden variety assholes, purse-snatchers, rapists … shall I continue?

Jules was Minerva’s nemesis, the person who had put her in this … situation. If it hadn’t been for Jules, Minerva wouldn’t have been killed, and she wouldn’t have needed to go into hiding.

Minerva telegraphed a right that Amber deftly grabbed before it could reach her chin, throwing her attacker off balance and back to the blue wrestling mat, once again.

Thirteen.

Minerva growled and hopped up. She wasn’t about to let Amber beat her, even if the nimble, smarter version of Wonder Woman did hold black belts in two martial arts and a brown belt in a third, not to mention being an experienced kickboxer, skydiver, backpacker, and physician. Minerva, for her part, had spent most of her life in a wheelchair. Once she’d finally managed to overcome that particular constraint (with Raven guiding and motivating her), she’d promptly let herself be killed in a hail of police bullets (again, with Raven providing the motivation). Raven was almost as much trouble as Jules, but he was cute. And nice. That made all the difference.

Minerva smiled slightly and brought to mind the memory of her head hitting the mat hard a moment earlier, directing the thought at Amber. The ability to project her own memories into other people’s minds could come in handy. Sometimes painfully.

Hey! her opponent said. No fair.

Minerva shrugged. If you can fight dirty …

Amber shook her head. Believe it or not, I was taking it easy on you, Sis. You’re a beginner, that’s obvious, but you’re making progress. It’s like a video game: You’ve got to start at the newbie level and work your way up. I’d say you’re about at Level 3 now.

Out of how many?

Oh, maybe 184. But who’s counting? She laughed.

How’s she doing? Raven asked as he walked through the double doors at the far end of the gym.

Well enough for a newb, Amber said. She knew the question had been directed at her; Raven rarely spoke to Carson or even acknowledged his presence. The man had killed Raven’s grandmother.

Raven nodded approvingly. Whatever insecurities Minerva might have, he knew she was the toughest person in the room. He was here because of her sheer force of will. Her memory had brought him back from the no-man’s land of death, and then she’d sacrificed herself to keep him here. The fact that they were both dead, yet still very much aware and functioning, could get pretty confusing. All he could do was accept it and enjoy every moment with the childhood friend he had grown to love.

Minerva was less accepting, but she had struggled her whole life, so that was natural. In fact, it was her take-no-prisoners attitude that made her as strong as she was.

Ready for a break? Raven asked.

Minerva shook her head. I’m not done here. She turned her attention back to Amber and assumed a fighting stance.

Amber, who was standing about eight feet away, put her hands at her sides. You don’t have to prove anything, she said. You’re doing good. Raven’s right. Take a break. You’re not used to this.

Yeah, Raven said. This isn’t like when you were remembering how to walk. You’d done that before. This is new.

Minerva didn’t even look at him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Amber.

The other woman had to stop herself from taking a step backward. As varied and impressive as her skills might be, she didn’t have the gift. If Minerva got really mad, there wouldn’t be much she could do to defend herself. She’d already gotten a taste of that with Minerva’s projected memory of her head hitting the mat. Amber hadn’t thought she’d go there; now she wasn’t sure.

Minerva saw Amber’s muscles tense and realized what was happening. She didn’t relax a single muscle but spoke a few clipped words of reassurance that sounded almost ironic through clenched teeth. Don’t worry, Sis. I won’t hurt you, at least not that way.

Amber didn’t really know what to make of this, but she put her hands back up in a defensive stance, as she had done before.

Minerva smiled ruefully. Sorry, Sis, she said with a barely detectable shake of her head. And she moved forward, exactly as she had done the first time. Again, she balled up her right fist and drew it back before she reached Amber, cocking it to deliver a heavy blow. Again, Amber reached forward to grab it. But this time, instead of a right cross aimed at Amber’s chin, Minerva ducked low to the mat and allowed the momentum of her swing to carry her in a somersault that took less time than it did for Amber to react. Before she could move to counter, Amber felt the force of a strong two-legged kick, amplified by Minerva’s momentum, strike her directly in the stomach.

Oof!

Minerva rolled to her right shoulder and hopped to her feet, while Amber, noticeably out of breath, whirled to face her, just barely off her knees in a crouch.

"Now I’ll take that break," Minerva said.

Amber smiled and winced at the same time. Where did that come from? she asked, rising to her feet. I’ve never seen that move before.

Minerva shrugged. I improvised. Based on how you reacted before. She tapped her forehead once lightly with her index finger. Or did you forget my flawless memory? She grinned, and Amber laughed.

First rule of combat: Know your opponent, Amber said. You passed with flying colors. Me? Not so much.

Minerva chuckled. You’ll get the hang of it, she teased. Or maybe not. It’s not something you can learn without the right equipment. Amber took a playful swipe at her with an open palm.

Minerva ducked out of the way. Knew that was coming, too. She winked.

They walked up to Carson, who shook his head slightly. Don’t get cocky, Minerva, he said. She’s got a lot of moves you haven’t seen. He looked over at Amber, allowing himself a rare smile, which she returned.

And there are goons out there who have moves she doesn’t use, Raven added. You can’t remember something you’ve never seen.

Minerva raised an eyebrow. Thanks for the reminder, she said sarcastically. "I’d almost forgotten that."

Date

The first few weeks after Minerva and Raven found each other again were a whirlwind. Raven’s kidnapping and Minerva’s subsequent death truly tested their limits, but things had quieted down, and Jules remained safely locked away at the top-secret medical complex where Minerva herself had once been held. She was no longer a threat, thanks to the comatose state Minerva had induced in her.

For the past couple of months, the group of them had been living in a house Carson found for them in Salton City, which was very salty but not much of a city.

Envisioned as a modern Riviera-style resort, it was developed in the sixties, on the western shore of the Salton Sea, about sixty miles north of the Mexican border and a little over a hundred miles east of San Diego. Most of it had never been built. Streets curved this way and that in neighborhoods of empty lots. A few had houses on them, but most remained vacant, caressed by the hot desert wind that carried a stench of salt, polluted water, and dead fish.

It wasn’t a sea, really, but a huge accidental lake created when the Colorado River burst through its banks and emptied into a natural depression.

Early attempts to create a resort had seemed promising, with the lake hosting speed boat races, a Beach Boys concert, and a visit from Frank Sinatra. But as time passed, the chemicals from the surrounding farmland washed down the hillsides into the below-sea-level basin, polluting it to the point that the fish started dying, washing up by the thousands to decompose on the shore.

No one wanted to brave 100-degree summer heat to live beside a sea of dead fish. Many of the landowners just packed up and left, abandoning their property to the dust and the vermin. Vacationers stopped coming, too, leaving their Winnebagos and Gulfstreams to rot and rust in the searing desert wind.

Carson, their nemesis-turned-ally, had decided it was too dangerous to stay at the old motel he’d used as his base of operations for the Federal Intelligence Network, or FIN, a more elite version of the CIA that was so covert almost no one knew it existed. Amber’s Topanga Canyon cabin was secluded, but it wasn’t secure enough to use indefinitely, so he’d purchased a vacant four-bedroom home through a third party and set them up there, reasoning that if someone stumbled upon their trail, they could retreat to one of the abandoned trailers up the road in Desert Shores.

So far, no one had bothered them.

Everyone thought Raven, Minerva and Amber were all dead—which, of course, they were. There’d even been a funeral for Minerva. The problem had been Henry Marshall, the doctor who had tried to help Minerva and Amber reach Raven when Jules was still holding him hostage. The police had arrested him for harboring fugitives, and their success in breaking him out of jail had made him a wanted man. He’d insisted on turning himself in for the good of the others, and after a heated argument, they’d finally agreed. Carson would work on a way of getting him out once things settled down.

Which they had started to do. The three of them were even able to go out occasionally without being recognized, although if they wanted to do anything fun, like have a nice dinner, they had to drive up to Indio or Palm Springs.

Minerva walked beside Raven as they entered Esperanza y Gloria. The Spanish restaurant’s name translated to Hope and Glory, something Raven thought was appropriately uplifting for the occasion, even if the two owners had named it after themselves. Sisters Hope and Gloria Rogers weren’t even Spanish, but the food was good and the atmosphere even better. That was what mattered.

Neither had to eat anymore, but they still enjoyed the taste. Even in their current state, the biting sensations of the salsa and the creamy decadence of the flan could make them swoon.

The heavy wooden doors reminded Raven of something you’d see at a winery or an old castle keep. Inside, they found themselves surrounded by adobe walls, their eyes naturally drawn to the skylights that admitted the glow of sunset. Candles on the table and some iron chandeliers with faux candles of their own kept the place warmly illumined as the sunlight faded. Potted ferns hung from the ceiling, giving them the sense of having entered some ancient grotto.

Fancy, Minerva remarked as a host in pressed white shirt and black tie led them to the table. What’s the occasion?

"Don’t tell me you forgot?" Raven sounded hurt. But he was smiling, pleased he had surprised her. He’d begun to think it impossible.

Minerva looked up at him—he was about four inches taller—with a knowing smile. Gotcha, she said. It’s the three-month anniversary of our meeting the second time.

Maybe a lot of couples didn’t mark three-month anniversaries, but Raven and Minerva weren’t your ordinary couple. Going through as much as they had together only made them more aware of how important their connection was, and of marking that connection. Beyond the sentimentality, this was another way of cementing each other in their memories, another touchstone. That was how memory worked: Big events seared themselves into your brain, and even when you had an eidetic memory, every little bit helped … especially when your very existence depended upon it.

His memory of her had kept her in this world despite her death, just as her memory of him brought him back from the other side. Each had the gift of memortality, as they’d come to call it, and each of them used it to sustain the other in a sort of symbiotic state that allowed them to go beyond the normal bounds of awareness, into a state of paralucidity.

Minerva decided on filet of sole, Raven ordered steak, medium-rare.

You did good out there today, he said. I was impressed.

I still don’t see what good this training will do. It’s not as though I can actually be hurt anymore. I am dead.

Yeah, but they can still take you hostage, like Jules did with me. Besides, what if your friends got into a jam, like I was, and you had to go up against some ninjas or something to help them out? You’re better off having the skills to kick some ass, rather than being a victim.

"I will not be a victim," she whispered, her eyes narrowing.

Didn’t think so, Raven smiled. That’s why this training is a good thing. But I didn’t bring you here to talk about that.

Minerva’s frown vanished. It was good to spend time with Raven, just the two of them, to relax for a change.

Before they bring the food, I have something I want to give you.

Minerva sat up a little straighter, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, You’re not going to propose, are you, because … I don’t think I’m ready for that. I mean, I love you, you know that, but it’s just that … I’ve been alone all my life and, I’m not sure … There’s that whole ‘till death do us part’ thing, and … it just scares me a little and …

Raven reached a hand across the table and put it on hers. Whoa, slow down, Min. Who said anything about marriage? Besides, I think we’ve got the ‘till death do us part’ thing covered. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re both dead—and we’re still together.

Minerva laughed nervously, feeling a mixture of foolishness, relief and … was that disappointment? Had she actually wanted him to propose? She brushed the possibility aside and let herself relax again, looking him in the eye. Sorry, she mumbled.

He caressed her hand softly with the tips of his fingers, then pulled them back again to retrieve a small box he’d been carrying in the inner pocket of his jacket. It was too big for a ring, but it did look like a jewelry box.

What’s this?

Open it, Raven prompted.

She did. Inside was a shiny silver necklace with a dazzling emerald in a teardrop setting.

Emeralds are good for memory, Raven said, or so I’m told.

As if we need it, Minerva chuckled, smiling as she gazed at it.

A little insurance never hurt.

True. Where did you find it?

It was my grandmother’s. She slipped it into my pocked just before we left the Between. She said I should give it to ‘that special person’ when the time was right—and I figured the time was right.

Minerva leaned across the table, and Raven did the same, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. She didn’t think they needed any insurance. Either for their memories or their relationship—but it sure was a beautiful stone.

Dossier

Neil Vincent pulled at the corner of his mustache as he studied the dossier on his tablet. Nobody knew him by that name, except his wife and those who had known him in his previous life as a government official. To everyone who mattered now, he was Phantom, a code name he’d chosen for himself as director of FIN.

It seemed appropriate.

He knew he had only a few minutes before the information would disappear, erased by a program designed to remove all trace of what had been communicated. No nasty emails to be retrieved by congressional subcommittees. No paper trail for anyone to follow. He had to commit it all to memory in the next few moments, or it would be lost forever. It was ironic that someone like him, who lacked an eidetic memory, needed to work as hard as he could to muster some semblance of that gift in order to effectively track those who did possess it.

Carson (aka Anthony Biltmore, code name Triage3NxO1) had been busy trying to stay one step ahead of the agency he supposedly worked for. Phantom had allowed him to think that he was still in the agency’s good graces—even that he was operating with the agency’s blessing in protecting Minerva Rus and Raven Corbet. Of course, the man would always be suspicious; any good agent in his position would be, and Carson was better than good. Phantom didn’t expect to remove that suspicion entirely. It would be enough to make Carson relax, to drop his guard just enough. Then, he would make his move.

Vincent shook his head. He didn’t have the luxury of letting his mind wander like this. A digital clock at the top of the screen on his tablet was ticking: 45 … 44 … 43 … That was how many seconds he had to absorb what was left of the cyber-document before him. The title was compelling, if wordy: Agenda: Create and Militarize a Force of Indestructible Soldiers for Use Against Enemies of the State, Foreign and Domestic.

An army of zombies, he liked to call it. He knew from studying Rus and Corbet that the memortals, like ordinary humans, had minds of their own and, as individuals with free will, they could be extremely dangerous. His job was to find a way to dehumanize them, to program them in much the same way a drill sergeant might break down a raw recruit in boot camp, then rebuild the person as an integral component of a killing machine. Such soldiers had one, and only one purpose: to follow orders without question. If he could find a way to harness the power of a person who couldn’t die, whose wounds would heal almost instantly, and if he could multiply that power by thousands, he could produce a deterrent more effective than a nuclear weapon. Not only could a battalion of such memortals neutralize an entire army of common fighters, a strategically placed strike team could disrupt a terrorist cell like swatting a gnat.

This had been Jules’ task: to find a way to assemble such an army. Others on the team would complete the process by breaking their will and reconditioning them to accept and follow orders without question.

He’d given Jules a lot of leeway in accomplishing her assignment. The reason was two-fold. One: the less he knew, the less it could be used against him. And two: she was the best at what she did.

Her apparent failure to neutralize and capture Raven Corbet had been surprising and regrettable, but it had produced an unexpected windfall: Minerva Rus’ death and reanimation gave him another subject to study and, eventually, to form the cornerstone of the zombie militia he envisioned.

Amber Hardin-Torres could prove useful as well. Though she lacked the gift, Rus and Corbet were preserving her by using their memories. She was just as indestructible as they were.

All the information Jules had collected on the three of them was contained in this dossier, along with other data compiled by a variety of agents who’d been trailing them since Jules’ unfortunate miscalculation in her encounter with the Rus woman.

Recommendation: Retrieve agent, code name JulesB6s4R, and equip to resume original mission. Priority alpha.

3 … 2 … 1 …

As he read the last line, it vanished.

Witness

"You’re going to what?"

I’m going to arrange to have you testify against Duke Malone.

I heard you the first time, Henry Marshall said, pacing the few steps it took to get from one side of his cell to the other. Problem number one: I don’t know Duke Malone and I never saw him do anything illegal. Problem number two: your Mr. Malone is, as I understand it, the head of the Carlozzi-Sevchenko Syndicate. Kind of a hybrid Sicilian-slash-Russian operation. Bollocks, man! They’re the biggest criminal enterprise on the bloody West Coast!

Carson nodded. That’s why the feds are so desperate to take them down, which in turn is why this will work.

So, let me get this straight: You want me to lie under oath so the feds can put away ‘Special Delivery’ Duke Malone, so his henchmen—you still call them that, right …?

Not really. Goons. Minions. Whatever.

… so the people who do his dirty work for him can rub me out?

"They don’t really say that anymore, either. You’ve been watching too many old Untouchables reruns. But yes, that’s the idea. Except you won’t get killed. The point is to make the feds think you’re in danger of getting killed, so they’ll release you into the witness protection program."

I’ve heard of the Syndicate finding them anyway, Henry objected, biting his lower lip and scowling.

Carson stepped closer and lowered his voice. Not when I’m in charge of the operation. It was true enough: The mob had never succeeded in tracing someone under his care once that person had been placed in witness protection. The inconvenient caveat was that he’d never been in charge of a witness protection case. He was FIN, not WITSEC, and he had no particular love for those jerks in the Injustice Department, as he liked to call it. Besides, they’d just gotten to the point that Jules wasn’t chasing them, and now he wanted to pick a bone with the Syndicate and tell it to go play fetch? Not the smartest idea he’d ever had, but it was the best option he could come up with after Minerva had insisted they do something to get Henry out of jail.

Henry took a step backward.

Carson tried to modify his tone to sound more reassuring, something he wasn’t very good at. Think of it this way. Normally, the worst you’d get for evading an officer would be a year or two in jail …

But I wasn’t evading anyone, Henry protested. I pulled over.

"Yes, you pulled over … after which police determined you’d been transporting a fugitive and got involved in an OIS where someone—namely our friend Minerva—got herself killed. Cops don’t like that. They have to go on leave, even if it’s not their fault, while Internal Affairs investigates.

And they get rattled. Cops don’t like being rattled.

OIS?

Officer-involved shooting.

Ah …

On top of that, you broke out of jail. Carson could feel his tone getting harsh again. He wasn’t used to talking this much. Explaining things to people who should be able to figure them out on their own wasn’t his strong suit.

Correction. The four of you broke me out.

Carson took a deep breath. "That’s not how the court is going to see it. What it comes down to is you’re looking at doing some serious prison time—right alongside people who will fuck you up just as much as Malone’s people. And they will fuck you up, whereas Malone’s goons won’t, because I won’t let ’em."

Henry cocked his head to one side. Even if that’s all true, it still doesn’t solve problem number one: I didn’t see Malone do anything illegal.

Carson relaxed a little. He was halfway there. "No one has to know that. Especially when you did happen to be working at Serendipity Medical Center on the night that Joe Kelly expired of not-so-natural causes in the third-floor recovery unit."

Henry didn’t know who Joe Kelly was, but he figured he’d annoyed Carson enough with his questions, so he’d hear him out. The guards had only given him fifteen minutes of privacy with Carson (who’d identified himself as Henry’s lawyer), and he didn’t want to waste it.

On the night of July 23 last year, when you were checking on a patient named Mike Thurber on the same floor …

"I do remember him. How did you know …?"

Yes. Well. A couple of rooms down from Thurber was a patient named Joe ‘Shoeshine’ Kelly, a compulsive gambler who owed Duke Malone a lot of money and also happened to have shagged—that’s how you Brits say it, right?—Duke’s girl. He’d done it before Duke met her, but it didn’t matter. Revenge is retroactive. That’s what they say in the mob. So, Duke had his godson, Jeffy Lomeli, dress himself up as an orderly and sneak into Shoeshine’s room to put a nice, fluffy pillow over his face—for an extended period.

Henry opened his mouth, but Carson didn’t give him a chance to object.

I know, I know, he said. "You didn’t see any of this. But there was someone who did, a nurse who was on duty that night and can place Lomeli at the scene, going into and coming out of Shoeshine’s room just before he coded. Naturally, she doesn’t want to testify, which is where you come in. You tell her story in court, Jeffy gets